Best Enemies
by WinterSong971
Summary: During wartime, France finds an injured England in an abandoned church, and takes care of him. English names used- Arthur Kirkland is England and Francis Bonnefoy is France.
1. Night is Falling

Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated :) Disclaimer~ If I owned Hetalia I probably wouldn't be writing fanfiction about it.

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Despite the thunderous sounds of shelling outside, it was incredibly quiet inside the church. One could even say _deathly silent_ without it being an exaggeration. The continuous mortars shook the foundations, sending debris cascading through the air from the rafters. The dimly-lit church was simple, with wooden floors and rough hewn pews which had been pushed towards the walls. The oak doors hung off its hinges, and the altar had been knocked over. A dusty cross lay forgotten on the floor.

The silence was shattered as heavy doors burst open with a groan and a crack. A man in a French soldier's uniform stumbled in. His shoulder length blonde hair was falling out of a loose ponytail, curly wisps of hair clinging to the sweat which gathered around his soot-streaked but fair face. With shaky hands he held a flask of water to his parched lips and looked around, dropping his bag with a definitive _clang_. In the hours of quickly fading light, the church was full of weak golden rays of sun. The soldier walked to the end of the church and righted the fallen cross. He turned his back, before sharply whipping around and dropping his heavy pack. Behind the altar, curled into a ball was a man. A tattered army green jacket had been thrown over him, and his standard issue pack was being used as a pillow. Thick eyebrows were creased in either pain or concentration- he couldn't tell.

"Oh, Angelettere!" The man in a soiled British uniform did not move. The taller French soldier quickly knelt down by his fallen brother. In a flurry of movement, he had moved the Englishman onto his back and was obtrusively prodding to find a wound. The man on the floor hissed in pain and weakly batted the Frenchman's hands away. When he did not let up, he groaned and grasped his stomach. Slender, soft hands reached out for sturdy rough ones. "Arthur, it's me." The French accent was almost as gently as the man as he pulled back calloused hands to reveal a large wound. To the Frenchman, the world was explosively loud as he undid dull brass buttons to reveal a blood-soaked bandage. The thick soles of his boots caused the wooden floor to creak as he unceremoniously ran to the other end of the church to retrieve his luggage. He returned to his friend's side with a bottle of alcohol and a first aid kit.

As he began to unwind the rough fabric which bound the soldier's stomach, bright green eyes shot open in panic as he shuddered. "Francis you Bastard!" His voice was wild.

"Shhh, it's only me. It's only me." He worked faster, noticing the dying light. Francis struggled not to retch once the bandages had been removed. Angry red skin framed a large rip, full of stray shrapnel and dry blood. Puss and blood slowly oozed out of the deepest part of the wound. With no warning given to the injured man, he uncorked the alcohol and poured it in, drawing an agonized cry. Every muscle tensed as he combated the mind numbing pain which burned him like fire. It wasn't until after he stopped shaking that he realized some time must have passed. A small, hand-held lantern was propped up on the dusty floor and the blonde Frenchman was bent over something.

"You! Frog! ... what did you do to me?" He struggled out between ragged breaths.

A haggard face came into view, a smile tugging at the corner of his feminine lips. "Don't be such a child, Arthur." He held shining tools in his hand. "Now be still, this will hurt." Before he had a chance to prepare himself, Francis had dug in again, scouring the wound for shards of rusty metal or splinters of wood. Arthur knew better than to struggle, but sometimes a flinch would slip past his iron will. Francis paused long enough for Arthur to hear the familiar _snip_ of scissors, and knew what was coming next. He tried to relax as the other nation stitched his flesh as calmly as a noble lady practicing needlepoint. After what seemed like an eternity, the pain stopped. Reality seemed far away, and Arthur let his head fall back (when did he sit up?). Francis wiped his hands and carefully dressed him in new bandages. "Are you injured anywhere else?"

When Arthur didn't answer, Francis pressed a metal flask to his lips. "It's only water." With a defiant look, he took the flask and drank greedily.

"I'm fine." He heard Francis smirk as he settled back down. "What where you even doing in England, you wino?"

His voice was drowned out by a bone-shaking _boom_. Screaming civilians, boots on the ground, and the sound of buildings turning to dust roared though the air. Francis protectively threw himself across the younger nation. There was a pregnant, heavy pause until another blast shook the church. Arthur groaned, but it was lost in the chaos and noise. A chunk of wood fell from the ancient timbers, spraying the two nations with fine shards of glass and dust.

Instead of darkness, the two were cast in an eerie red glow. Francis looked at his charge; Arthur had closed his eyes and was breathing heavily. They both knew the deep-rooted agony of loosing citizens, and this was striking Arthur right in the heart. Francis carefully slid his willowy arms under the other man's stocky frame and lifted him up, pressing him against his chest in an almost possessive manner. The dynamic French face showed clear signs of concern towards the Englishman's unresponsiveness. He gracefully walked over to the nearest available pew and laid him down, sliding a backpack under his head and throwing a thick blanket over him. Quickly falling asleep, he did not notice the loss of warmth as Francis stood up and exited their sanctuary.


	2. Daybreak is Found

Francis walked through the broken streets remembering Arthur's fleeting grandeur. He was desperately trying to find supplies that would help him save his friend. Not to mention, he had to get out. He couldn't let the younger nation see his knees wobble, his hands tremble, or the dead look in his bloodshot eyes. The less responsive the Englishman became, the more worried Francis was. He didn't want him to be passive, damnit! He wanted him to fight with every fiber of his being, like he was created to do. The French soldier shook the dark thoughts from him head and continued his search. Small fires lit his way, and spotlights illuminated the air, thick with dust and debris. He picked his way over fallen building like it was nothing, keeping his mind fixed on one goal: to save Arthur.

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He returned to the church after what seemed like an eternity, bringing good tidings of food and medical supplies. He sat next to his fallen friend, who stirred only slightly in a fitful sleep. He carefully lifted up the man's shirt and inspected the already soaked-through bandages. Sighing, he produced rubbing alcohol from his bag of finds and began to clean the infected wound again. "I'm sorry _mon cheri._ " He whispered when Arthur began to fight the pain.

He cracked open an emerald green eye. "Get your hands off of me, pervert." There was no conviction in his voice, but it made Francis smile. For a second, he could pretend they were in a time before the war.

Throughout the night, Francis watched over the soldier. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead, and his cheeks turned a rosy hue. He changed the bandages on the wound several times, cleaning it thoroughly. There were no more bombs, and Francis was left alone in the silence. Even the fired had died down, and with his friend fading he felt like the last person on Earth. It was by far one of the longest nights of Francis's incredibly long life. His thoughts drifted to what they left behind as the nations grew up. Innocent teasing sparked bitter fights, which later softened in their old age. Through their many arguments and skirmishes, the two nations ironically had no shortage of similarities.

A whimper brought him back to reality. Arthur's fever had worsened, and he was shivering in his sleep. Francis knew the fever was just as dangerous, and he would have to break it. He gently lifted up the injured man's head and coaxed him to drink more water. When he opened his usually sharp eyes, they were glassy and unfocused. "It's okay, you are with me _cheri_." The Frenchman frowned at the lack of response, but continued trying to lower his temperature. He laid a cold, wet rag on his forehead and waited anxiously.

"Maybe you just need some air." He said to the unmoving form. Walking over to the closest window, he steeled himself as he wrapped a rag around his feminine hand. "Forgive me." He looked up and away and punched the window, delicate and meticulously made stained glass shattering outward. Night air rushed in, swirling around the church like a phantom. The way the dust danced, it was almost like Francis had company. He laughed bitterly to himself.

The sky began to grow pale, but the usually welcome sight did not bring any hope to Francis. Arthur had not gotten any better. Indeed, after the night he was looking much worse for wear. The older nation poured more water in his mouth and roughly cleaned the wound again, hardly confident in the Englishman's ability to even open his eyes. He replaced the rag on his forehead and waited again. Hopelessly, Francis wondered how long his friend had been in the church before he had arrived. Shaking his head, he sighed and looked back to the sleeping face. Nations couldn't die, right?

Arthur's sleep grew more and more restless, and his breaths became ragged and uneven. He shivered and whimpered and tossed around, both hot and cold. Suddenly he thrashed out, yelling in his sleep. The sudden movement startled Francis from his sleep-deprived daze, and he jumped up. " _Merde! {Shit} Cheri_ why?" They were both having a fit. Arthur's breath hitched, and once again there was the silence which the Frenchman feared."Damnit Arthur, fight if you want to be out so bad!" He uncorked his water flask and, with a very French flourish, threw it on the Englishman.

Suddenly the world seemed to shake and transformed suddenly, the sun bursting up like fire from over the flimsy wooden wall. Shades of deep azure blue and ruby red were thrown across the room. Shards of stained glass leapt to life as the church was flooded with magnificently brilliant color. For the Frenchman, color was louder than even the bomb shells that had been falling on them like deadly raindrops.

Arthur sat up suddenly, gasping, green eyes as hard as diamonds and burning with determination. Sweat rolled down his strong face and was illuminated like liquid gold; his fever had broken. "What the fuck you bloody bastard! You're trying to kill me, I knew it!"

Francis, standing over Arthur, started laughing. In the newfound morning his pale blonde hair shimmered like a halo and his blue eyes sparkled. The sun hit his pale hands and face, making him glow almost like he was an angel. He didn't stop laughing until there were tears in the corner of his eyes, and by then Arthur was laughing as well.


	3. Light of Day

**AWW... THIS IS AWESOME**

 **This is fantastic! I encourage you to continue it.**

Moonylitt-Tears, Paradoxkay thank you for your support :) I will definetly keep writing! If anybody has suggestions/ requests for a fic please PM me~

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The second time Arthur Kirkland fell asleep, it was much more peaceful. The company of the sun had brought with it warmth and lights, and the injured nation was comforted. He let Francis take care of him without complaint; this time it was for need of a friend rather than a lack of comprehension. He also could tell- the Frenchman needed the contact even more than he did. Francis had always been the sensitive one, and any ordeal like this was difficult. Finally settling in a propped-up position in his lap, the English soldier had fallen asleep with a smile.

Francis was still frowning, concerned for his friend. In the brief hour he had been awake and lucid, he had explained the situation. The British army had taken heavy losses and was exhausted from constantly taking risky offensive moves. He scoffed, it was just like Arthur to do something of that sort. The man was built like a war horse, but just as stubborn as a mule. Having taken enough damage, he had retreated to the ruins of his city to be with his people and find comfort in his own territory. Francis sighed and stroked the Englishman's forehead, thinking. He wanted to get Arthur away, but he knew it would take a miracle to make him leave. Now that the excitement (if one could call it that- perhaps drama is a better word?) had died down, Francis was begging to feel his own wounds. The wear and tear of war was hard on most nations, but him and Arthur had been fighting with everything they had and more. he could feel days, weeks, and months of bruises and cuts throbbing. Stiff joints and sore muscles restricted his movement, and he could tenderly feel his freshly healed broken ankle and dislocated shoulder.

He sighed and looked at his friend again, he knew it would be difficult to heal in a place like this. Nations can get two kinds of wounds: wounds that reflect what is happening in their country, and wounds that are inflicted by other nations on the personification. Francis guessed another nation had given Arthur that brutal gash, and it would take longer to heal. He sighed and set his resolve. He would take Arthur to a safe place to heal, even if he had to kill him to do it. He shifted the nation in his arms and stood up, feeling his joints pop and his muscles creak. The Englishman did not stir, already exhausted from too many battles.

Arthur woke up slowly, wanting to stay in that soft, warm place forever. Soft? Warm? He peeled his eyes open, only to be greeted with a blurry vision. He saw white, something white. He felt the blankets that had been carefully draped on him, confused. Crisp linen met his rough hands, callouses dragging across the smooth material. A familiar scent that usually accompanied Francis greeted him as well. The sweet smell of soap from Marseille settled over the room. Finally, his vision cleared and the soldier looked around. White curtains blew gently in front of open windows. He saw a blue sky and rolling green hills. It was unfair how picturesque it was; if it was under any other circumstance he would have been overjoyed at the sight that was before him. There were no signs of his grey, drab, desolate streets. There were no remnants of the utter destruction and brutal disregard for life that ravaged his most precious cities.

The actual building that he was in was also familiar. It was a cottage in the countryside that the two had warred over once. The simple wooden walls and floor was brightened with flowers on the small table and a colorful overstuffed chair that was currently being occupied by a sleeping Frenchman.

"Francis!" Arthur barked.

"Ah~" Francis cooed as he woke up with a smile.

"Francis, you wine loving bastard! Why did you take me away from my city? You idiot! My people need me and I need them, are you trying to doom us all? I Was perfectly fine by myself before you came along and tried to commit a bloody homicide!" The slender French face fell. "You are such a wanker doing that. That was stupid... reckless... you could have died to get me here you idiot. If you die in this war, I'll kill you!"

Big blue eyes met green eyes. The injured Englishman looked sad and lonely, like Francis had already left him. " _Non ma petit lapin_ {No my little rabbit}, I am not dying any time soon, and neither are you." He took his hands again, reassuringly. On his face was a look of brotherly love. "Who else would I be able to fight with if you died?"

Arthur coughed softly, but Francis swore it sounded like "Thank you."


End file.
